


Mask

by westwoodandridingcrops



Series: Object(ified) [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwoodandridingcrops/pseuds/westwoodandridingcrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>We take requests on <a href="http://westwood-and-ridingcrops.tumblr.com/ask">Tumblr.</a> We'll literally write anything. Give us a go.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Mask

**Author's Note:**

> We take requests on [Tumblr.](http://westwood-and-ridingcrops.tumblr.com/ask) We'll literally write anything. Give us a go.

Jim leaned up against the column at the corner of the dance floor sipping his champagne slowly. He looked over the crowd of familiar people, unfamiliar to him and one another now.

A masquerade. How inane. And yet, when he’d told Sherlock, his eyes had lit up.

“Reynolds will be there?” He’d asked, hopeful.

Ah, of course. His lover wasn’t excited at the prospect of a crowded, hotel ballroom full of insipid people. He was a dog after a bone. Reynolds was a competitor, a sometimes friend, often enemy of Jim, and currently under investigation by London’s finest for his business practices.

Jim saw it as a measure of doing bad business. You don’t leave your dirty laundry out for others to see, and you certainly didn’t leave it in the back of an alleyway riddled with bullet holes. So, let Sherlock have him, then. Reynolds would be out of Jim’s hair, and Sherlock and he might finally manage to fuck again.

“I don’t do  _that_  on a case, Jim. You know this.”

“It’s been two fucking months, Sherlock.”

“Still, the point stands.”

Yes, the point had been standing for eight long weeks now. Eight weeks of Sherlock’s long legs draped over chair arms, eight weeks of the nape of his neck begging for teeth, eight weeks of Jim growing ever more impatient. But tonight, it would be over.

Sherlock had donned his mask and slicked his hair into something more contained than his usual frizz. Between that, a changed voice and posture, and a tuxedo, he was unrecognizable to anyone they would come across.

Reynolds had been charmed by his charming boyfriend charming him… Charming. Jim’s teeth ground at the sight of Sherlock’s hand resting on Reynolds’ pudgy upper arm, the smile he flashed when Reynolds remarked wittily.

Jim had mainly stayed in the shadows, observing others and keeping a never-to-be-admitted watchful eye on Sherlock. Finally, the jig seemed to be up, and Jim straightened as he watched Sherlock cut through the throngs of people to him, knowing without looking where Jim had placed himself.

With each step fell away the affectations he’d assumed for his latest role. His bearing became more rigid, his pace quicker. By the time he was at Jim’s column, his eyes had the same cutting quality as a high grade surgical scalpel.

“I’ve texted Lestrade. They’ll be here in fifteen,” he said all at once. He was giddy from the high of the case. Jim had seen it before. “We should probably get you out of here.”

Jim snorted at the idea of anyone at the Yard noticing him or being brash enough to point him out to anyone else. Instead he tilted his head to the side.

“Not exactly what I had in mind.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and drug him off to the elevator bank, picking the penthouse floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Rectifying.”

After a quick jimmy of the lock, they were in the suite. Someone else’s bags were in the corner of the room, but he’d correctly assumed the occupants must be guests attending the soiree downstairs.

“Now, you beautiful, beautiful thing. Let’s get you out of these, hmm?” He asked, running his fingers over Sherlock’s lapel.

______________________________

Later, Jim leaned up against the headboard of the gratuitously large bed watching Sherlock crawling to him naked from the other end, not a stitch on him, just the half mask. Sherlock’s eyes were glassy with arousal, and feral in their intent.  

_Just the mask._

Sometimes, eight weeks was worth it.


End file.
